Orange Peels and Bullpens

Marcus stood in the bullpen, his baseball glove slapping against his thigh. The summer sun beat down on the field, turning the air thick and heavy. In twenty minutes, he'd pitch the most important game of his life.

"You got this, kid," his coach said, handing him a neon-orange bottle. "New brand. Vitamin B complex for focus. Take two."

Marcus stared at the pills. His teammates all had their rituals—lucky socks, special chewing gum, listening to the same playlist. Marcus just had anxiety that felt like a grizzly bear sitting on his chest, heavy and suffocating. He'd been dealing with it since middle school, but nobody knew.

The opposing pitcher stepped onto the field—Jake Morrison, senior, six-foot-two, already signed to play college ball. Last season, Jake had hit a home run off Marcus that landed in the parking lot. Since then, Marcus's teammates called him "the bear" because he'd frozen up, terrified to pitch against Jake again.

Marcus popped the vitamin pills. They tasted chalky and fake. He grabbed an orange from his bag, peeling it slowly, letting the citrus scent cut through the humidity. His grandmother always told him vitamin C helped with nerves. She'd died last year, and suddenly Marcus was the man of the house, expected to be strong, expected to not feel like crying every time someone mentioned her name.

"You're gonna strike him out," his best friend Dylan said, coming up behind him. "I saw you practicing yesterday. That slider is filthy."

Marcus nodded, juice dripping down his chin. Maybe Dylan was right. Maybe this was his moment. He wasn't the same kid who'd frozen last season. He'd grown, literally—two inches since spring. They said growth spurts stopped around sixteen, but here he was, still stretching into his body like a pair of shoes that were finally breaking in.

The umpire shouted, "Play ball!"

Marcus walked to the mound, the bear finally lifting from his chest. Jake Morrison stepped into the batter's box, tapping his bat. The orange peel still on Marcus's fingers, he set himself on the rubber.

First pitch: strike. Second pitch: foul ball. Third pitch—

Marcus threw everything he had. The baseball curved perfectly, Jake swung, missed completely. The catcher's mitt popped. Strike three. The bear was dead. Marcus grinned, wiping sticky orange juice on his uniform. The vitamins hadn't done it. Neither had the rituals. He'd just finally shown up.

Growing up wasn't about becoming someone else. It was about finding yourself already there, waiting underneath all that fear.